The heat was fading.
Renji Hayakaze sat cross-legged on the gargantuan, scaled snout of Vorgath, the Ashen King. The dragon's corpse was a mountain of cooling meat and jagged obsidian scales, slowly sinking into the mud of the valley floor.
Steam hissed around Renji. It rose from his skin, curling into the gray sky like the ghosts of the thousand soldiers Vorgath had incinerated earlier that morning.
It was raining. A cold, miserable drizzle that would have sent a lesser man shivering for shelter. But Renji didn't feel the cold. He felt the blood.
It coated him. A thick, viscous layer of crimson sludge, hot as magma when it had first sprayed from the dragon's severed jugular, now cooling into a sticky second skin. He wasn't wearing a shirt. He hadn't worn one since the fight started three hours ago. The fabric had incinerated in the first breath attack, leaving his torso exposed to the elements and the violence.
He took a breath. The air tasted of copper, ozone, and wet ash.
Finally.
His internal clock, usually ticking away with anxiety and plans, had stopped. The noise in his head—the constant strategy, the resource management, the grind—was silent. There was only the rain tapping against his skin and the rhythmic thrum of his own heart, slowing down from a combat high that felt better than any drug, any sex, any amount of money.
He looked down at his hands. They were stained so deep a red they looked black in the dim light. He rubbed his thumb over his palm, peeling away a flake of dried gore.
"Dead," Renji whispered.
The word felt good. Substantial.
Vorgath wasn't just a dragon. He was a calamity. A biological natural disaster that had turned the Northern Duchies into a parking lot of glass and bone. And Renji had punched him to death.
He didn't use a legendary sword. He didn't use a spell gifted by a goddess. He used his fists, reinforced by a mana-skin technique he'd spent six months grinding in a dungeon that smelled like rotting fish.
The rain intensified, scrubbing streaks of pale skin through the crimson mask on his chest. The water mixed with the blood, running down his defined abs and pooling in the hollow of the dragon's eye socket beneath him.
Renji slowly uncrossed his legs. His muscles protested—a deep, satisfying ache that told him he was alive and everything else was not. He stood up on the snout, his bare feet gripping the rough scales.
He looked at the sky. The clouds were heavy, dark, and oppressive. They looked like they wanted to crush him.
Let them try.
Renji threw his head back and opened his mouth.
"RRRAAAAAAAAGH!"
The roar tore out of his throat, raw and primal. It wasn't a hero's cheer. It was a predator claiming its kill. It was the sound of a man who had looked at a god-tier monster and decided he was the one who belonged at the top of the food chain.
The sound echoed off the valley walls, drowning out the thunder. For a moment, even the rain seemed to hesitate.
The air in the Throne Room of Zarathos was always set to a perfect, sterile twenty degrees Celsius.
Renji sat slumped on the obsidian throne, one leg thrown casually over the armrest. He was still shirtless. He hadn't bathed. The blood of the Ashen King had dried into a crusty, flaking map of violence across his chest and arms.
He looked like a barbarian king who had just sacked civilization, sitting in the heart of a high-tech fortress.
Most rulers would have cleaned up. They would have put on the silk robes, the crown, the facade of nobility. Renji didn't see the point. The blood was a better crown than gold ever could be. It sent a message. I do the dirty work. I do the killing.
He stared at the empty air in front of him. To anyone else, he was staring at nothing. To him, he was looking at the blue, semi-transparent interface that governed his existence.
[Quest Complete: The Ashen Calamity]
[Rewards: 5,000,000 XP, Title: Dragon-Bunker, Vorgath's Core]
[Level Up: 98 -> 99]
He swiped the notification away with a bored flick of his wrist. Level 99. Finally. The cap was 100. He was close enough to taste it.
"System," Renji said, his voice echoing in the vast, silent hall. "Summon the generals."
[Command Accepted.]
[Initiating Summoning Sequence: The Triad.]
The air in the center of the throne room warped. It didn't shimmer like a generic magic portal; it cracked. The reality of the room fractured like a broken mirror, three distinct fissures opening in the space before the throne.
From the left fissure, a blast of freezing air froze the moisture on the floor tiles.
From the right fissure, the smell of sulfur and old parchment filled the room.
From the center, there was nothing but a heavy, crushing gravity.
Thud.
Three figures materialized, kneeling instantly. They didn't dare look up. They knew better.
"Lord Renji," they chorused.
On the left was Kaelthas, the Frost-Lich. He was a skeleton draped in rags of midnight blue, floating an inch off the ground. His eyes were pinpricks of blue fire. He managed the kingdom's economy and magic research, mostly because he didn't need to sleep and had zero empathy for tax evaders.
On the right was Vexia, the Broodmother. She looked like a stunning human woman in a silk dress, until you noticed her eyes were compound, like a fly's, and her shadow cast the silhouette of a spider. She handled intelligence and assassinations.
In the center was Grakkor. A High-Orc Warlord standing seven feet tall even on his knees. He was clad in armor made from the plates of a Land-Whale. He handled the army. He was simple, violent, and fiercely loyal.
Renji looked at them. He saw their stats hovering over their heads.
[Loyalty: 100%]
[Loyalty: 100%]
[Loyalty: 100%]
Good numbers. But numbers could change.
"Rise," Renji said.
They stood. As they did, their eyes fell on him. Renji watched their reactions carefully.
Grakkor's nostrils flared as he smelled the dragon blood. His eyes widened, pupils dilating. To him, the dried gore was perfume. Pure power.
Vexia's compound eyes twitched, scanning the blood splatter patterns, likely calculating how the dragon died based on the spray velocity.
Kaelthas simply bowed his skull slightly lower.
"Vorgath is dead," Renji said. He didn't shout. He didn't boast. He stated it like he was reading a weather report.
"Sasuga, Lord Renji!" Grakkor bellowed, slamming his fist against his chestplate. The sound rang like a gong. "The Ashen King has plagued the Northern borders for a century! To think you crushed him alone... your might knows no bounds!"
"An efficient disposal," Kaelthas rasped, his voice sounding like grinding ice. "I shall send a retrieval team to harvest the scales and bones before scavengers arrive. The economy will see a twelve percent boost from the materials alone."
"I took the core," Renji said, tapping his inventory. "The rest is yours."
"Generous as always," Vexia purred, her voice smooth like honey laced with arsenic. "But you didn't summon us just to tell us you killed a lizard, did you, my Lord? You could have sent a message."
Renji leaned forward. The dried blood on his chest cracked with the movement.
"You're right, Vexia. The dragon was just a warm-up. A way to stretch my legs."
He wasn't lying. The fight had been hard, but it hadn't pushed him to the edge. Not really. And that was the problem. The boredom was creeping back in. The creeping numbness of being too strong for the setting.
"I checked the map this morning," Renji said. "The expansion has stalled."
The three generals stiffened.
"My Lord," Kaelthas began, "we have conquered the surrounding three duchies. Integrating their populations and economies takes time. If we expand too fast, we risk rebellion and supply chain collapse."
Renji rested his chin on his fist. "Logic. Reason. Caution. That is why I hired you, Kaelthas. You are excellent at maintaining the status quo."
Kaelthas flinched.
"But I am not interested in the status quo," Renji continued, his voice dropping an octave. "I am sitting at Level 99. I have one level to go. Just one. And killing local wildlife isn't giving me enough XP anymore."
He stood up. The generals took a synchronized step back. The pressure emanating from him—the sheer weight of his mana—was suffocating.
"System," Renji said aloud. "Display the World Map."
A massive holographic projection filled the room. It showed their continent. A small patch of red represented Renji's territory. It was decent sized, but compared to the massive gray blobs of the other empires, it was a speck.
Renji pointed a blood-crusted finger at the massive empire to the East. The Solarian Theocracy.
"They worship a Sun God, don't they?" Renji asked.
"Yes, my Lord," Vexia answered, a hint of nervousness in her voice. "They are a superpower. Millions of soldiers. Paladins. High-Priests capable of Tier-8 magic."
"Perfect," Renji said. A grin spread across his face, sharp and predatory.
"Grakkor. Mobilize the legions. All of them."
"Vexia. I want the names and locations of every High-Priest and General in their border cities by tonight."
"Kaelthas. Stop worrying about the economy. War is the economy now."
Renji looked at the map, then at his generals.
"I need a challenge. If this world won't give me one, I'm going to kick down the door of the biggest guy on the block and demand one."
He turned and walked toward the private quarters behind the throne, finally deciding it was time for a shower.
"We march at dawn. Don't disappoint me."